


Dirty Little Secret

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Bottom Yondu Udonta, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Past Abuse, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Ravagers with added Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Team as Family, Top Kraglin, a little ooc, pussy!yondu, ravagers being gross and snuggly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2018-10-07 16:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10364643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Captain's been avoiding him. Kraglin finds out why.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **This is a fic from my fabled personal spankbank, which should probably remain unpublished. Basically an excuse for shameless sex involving pussies. Unrealistic expectations with regards to multiple orgasms can be blamed on the Heat factor.**
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> **A word of warning - this was never intended to be read by eyes other than my own!**
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> ****

“You,” says Kraglin, clicking on the light in the store closet Yondu has just walked into, having received a message that a stocking mishap requires his immediate attention, “have been avoiding me.”

“You,” says Yondu, turning to march back out, “have been hackin’ the quartermaster’s commlink. That’s briggable.”

Kraglin, entirely too trusting in the square inch of lenience his status as First Mate And Occasional Fuck-Mate affords him, kicks off his perch of dusty packing crates and grabs Yondu’s arm. “I’ll fuck off, if ya ask me. But not before you’ve told me what’s goin’ on.”

Yondu glowers at the hand. When it doesn't retreat from the force of his sneer, he turns instead on its owner. “Ain’t nothin’. Even if it was, ain’t no reason I’d be _talkin’_ about it. Least of all to you.”

He sounds… well, pissed. But Yondu’s genuine ‘pissed’ is accompanied by whistles and death, and as Kraglin is faced with neither, this must be posturing. And _posturing_ means that this has something to do with some deadly secret, or Peter, or them. Them, as in, _them._ The two of them. Together. Not quite with a capital T, but something along the way.

Kraglin sighs, and lets Yondu extract himself. As ever, captain’ll talk in his own time, or not at all.

 

* * *

 

'His own time' comes three standard cycles later. It’s the first night of the week that Yondu’s cabin hasn’t been locked to his palmprint – something that occurs so rarely that Kraglin walks into it the first two times.

He hopes Yondu hears the crash and the muffled cuss, and feels… Well, he doesn’t know. _Something._

Because this is unusual, and while _unusual_ is rife and abundant as far as their jobs are concerned, a certain thread of routine underpins their everyday lives-of-crime. And that routine states, in printed block capitals, that the only time Kraglin gets kicked out the bed is when he’s fucked up.

Lying in his allocated cot – dusty from disuse, and filled with his bunkmates’ boots – Kraglin spends the first hour of the third night trying (and failing) to get comfortable, and the second hour contemplating what that fuck-up could be. When his mind turns up blank after blank, the toecap digging into his spine overrides his self-preservation. He figures that the most efficient solution would be to trace the problem to its source.

Its blue-skinned grumpy source, who is apparently feeling less communicative than usual. No matter: Yondu can yell the answer through the door, if he's that determined to avoid him.

Kraglin smacks his hand on the lock in vain hope. He falls through when the hatch opens, and finds the captain slouched in his chair, glowering at the middle-distance between his porthole window and the bed.

“Uh.” Kraglin steadies himself, catching his balance before he's forced to use his face as a brake. It's not like he has good looks to worry about, but walking out of cap'n's cabin with a black eye will only encourage more rumors about what they get up to in their spare time.

Yondu’s gaze doesn’t waver, but his shoulders hike as Kraglin pushes the door closed and presses the clamp on the locker. “You okay? Boss?”

He’s expecting bluster and snarls. He doesn't expect Yondu to hunch forwards, chin buried in his collar, and mutter ‘no’ to his chest.

Kraglin mouths for a reply. “Is it… is it something I can… help with?”

The look Yondu shoots is pure venom. But somehow, Kraglin doesn’t think the anger’s directed at him. Treading light as he can, he crosses the distance between them and kneels in front of Yondu’s outstretched boots.

“Lemme help?” he asks. Because dammit, if Yondu’s too proud to beg, it’s Kraglin’s duty to do it for him.

Yondu finds a point on the other wall to sneer at, showing Kraglin the angles of his profile. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, and looks as defensive as it’s possible for him to be without whistling.

Kraglin sniffs, curious. There’s something different in his scent. Not _bad_ different, like infection or a fresh-packed wound he’s ‘forgotten’ to tell Kraglin about, like last time. In fact, it’s kinda… _nice._

Warm. Bodily. Not sweat or anything – that’s mixed in with the usual undertones of oil and engine grease and residue from Yondu’s worn old plasma pistols.

Different. Muskier. More… _intimate_ somehow. Kraglin recognizes it, but his mind fails to make the connection – until Yondu, still looking anywhere but him, sits higher in his chair and starts unzipping his pants.

Oh. Well, he can work with this. Kraglin sucks on his tongue, drawing out spit in preparation.

“Want me to –“

“Shut up,” says Yondu. His voice cracks, just a little.

Okay. So not a blowjob. Makes sense – if the captain wanted a quickie there’s an unlimited number of ways he could’ve gotten one. Over the years they’ve become experts at getting off anywhere on the ship. Occasionally, they even avoid prying eyes.

So if it ain’t that…

Kraglin’s gawps. “You got a bug, don’t’cha! You fucked an unwashed bot an' picked somethin’ up! So do I got it too now, should I see the Doc…?”

“It ain’t that.” Every word is clipped, usual drawl full of whipsnap consonants. Kraglin swallows hard.

“Ball cancer then?”

Yondu’s eyeroll could only be more exaggerated if he popped the damn things from their sockets. “Aw, just sit there quiet-like, wouldya?” He tugs the zip down further, baring the balls in question – which look tighter than usual, drawn in close to his body despite the floppiness of the blue cock above.

Kraglin notices a tremble in his fingers, so faint it could be mistaken for a trick of the light, the waver of a dodgy bulb. But then Yondu exhales – a shaky and uncertain sound, so unlike him that Kraglin shuffles forwards, still on his knees, to rest a palm on each leatherclad thigh.

The smell’s stronger here, between Yondu’s legs. Kraglin takes a hungry sniff, trying to place it. Yondu's knees pinch in around Kraglin’s body as if they don’t know whether they’re pulling him in or trying to block him out.

“I… I dunno about this, p’raps…”

That’s where he’s smelt it. The faint tangy aroma – from the days where he hadn’t had a tight blue ass waiting for him four cycles out of seven, when Kraglin’d been a horny teen sloping around the whorehouses on Hrax. No matter how much incense they burnt, they could never quite smother it: the scent of a woman’s hungry cunt.

Yondu’s zipper rattles as his hand shakes. Kraglin grips his wrist to steady it. “Show me?” he breathes.

If this is what he thinks, if this is…

Yondu shuts his eyes, throat moving around dry spittle. Then yanks the zipper down until it’s cradled between his ass cheeks, and defiantly looks Kraglin in the eyes.

Or he would. If Kraglin’s eyes weren’t affixed to another part of Yondu’s anatomy – one which hadn’t been there last time he checked.

“Huh,” he says.

Yondu twitches, like he’s uncomfortable being on display. Kraglin flattens his fingers against his knee, holding it in place, just in case Yondu’s tempted to shut him out _._ He lets the captain get away with a lot, all things considered: from yelling at him when he needs a scapegoat, to packing him off on dull solos when he wants alone-time. But keeping _this_ from him would be unforgivable.

A pussy, tucked between Yondu’s balls and the navy furl of his asshole.

It’s blue - obviously - but a shade darker than the skin around it. Surprisingly dainty too, lips neat as closed petals and already tipped with slick. Kraglin spies a clit, and knows that if he peeled back the folds he’d find a hole.

Fuck. _Fuck._

This is new. New and hot and entirely turning him on.

Nothing on Yondu should look so _delicate –_ his cock certainly doesn’t, which is of a decent size when erect and shaped like a blunt arrowtip around the head. Kraglin enjoys being fucked by it almost as much as he enjoys fucking Yondu. And he knows from experience that Yondu’s ass ain’t delicate either, and that if you ignore the captain’s demands for _harder_ and _faster,_ you’re liable to wind up with a broken nose and bog duty for the week.

But this… Oh man. It’s so small and sweet and _pretty,_ and Kraglin wants to fucking ravage it.

The smell is heady, dizzying as Huffer-smoke, lodging fire in his guts. Before he knows it he’s licked his lips and moved in…

Yondu seizes a fistful of hair. He yanks, while shunting his ass back until his tailbone clonks the seat, keeping that tantalizing slit far from Kraglin’s mouth.

“Aw, c’mon,” grits Kraglin, eyes watering. “Thought ya liked being kissed down here, sir.”

The strain on his scalp only intensifies. He can see Yondu struggling to get a hold of himself, can read every spike of tension that shoots through his shoulders and the taut muscle of his thighs – which are again warring with the urge to clamp.

And – yeah, okay. Maybe he’s misjudged.

Moving slow, Kraglin retreats until Yondu realizes he’s not trying to eat him out by force. He relinquishes his deathgrip on his hair. His eyes, as he presses against the backrest, are hunted and dark.

Damn. No one with a cunt that cute should look so fucking _afraid_ of it. Kraglin hurries to make amends –

“You don’t want me to do nothing? I ain’t gonna do nothing. You know me, sir. I follow yer orders.”

“When ya feel like it,” Yondu mutters. But his heart’s not in it.

He looks worn all of a sudden; tired and wrung out and every one of his years. His fingertips hover above the zip, as if they’re pondering yanking it over the evidence so Yondu can pretend none of this ever happened.

Kraglin swallows. He doesn’t know what’s going on here, but he doubts that’d be helpful. Or healthy.

“How long’s it been there?” he asks instead, aiming for distraction. Yondu shrugs.

“Week.”

“And it ain’t never happened before?”

“Only… only a long time ago. When I was with the Kree – happened regular back then. Breedin' experiment of some sort.” Each sentence delivered short and fast as punches, jab and cross and hook. Kraglin tries not to let his sadness show.

“’Kay. Well. Does it… hurt, or anything? Should I take ya to Doc –“

“No!” Yondu’s knees do close at that, but then he grips his chair arms, unwinding tension from his neck by willpower, and forces them stubbornly apart. “No,” he repeats, calmer. “No doctors. And it only hurt when it were formin’.”

Oh. Ouch. Kraglin winces. He can’t imagine that’d been pleasant.

“So what’s the problem?” he asks. Fights to keep his voice grounded and normal, like they’re making conversation over afternoon tea. Or rotgut and a pile of corpses; that’s more their style.

Yondu is finding other things to look at. Kraglin gently presses:

“Y’know this don’t change anythin’, right? Not about you, not about who you are. If ya think I’m gonna respect you less, or anyone else is…”

“Not that,” says Yondu. Abrupt again. Which means he’s working his way up to another revelation. And, as Kraglin peers into that damp blue space, and sees the bead of natural slick rolling over Yondu’s perineum, he has an idea of what it might be.

“You horny?” he asks. He barely dares hope – and then feels abruptly guilty, because yeah, as much as lil' Kraglin’s raring to go, this isn’t about him.

Yondu nods.

Hoo boy. Lil' Kraglin is making his presence known.

Kraglin scoots forwards, a single inch – then stops as Yondu flinches. He looks more pissed at himself than anything. Squaring his jaw, he glares at Kraglin, daring him to comment. But that’s… really not something Kraglin can ignore.

“We don’t gotta do nothing,” he says, quiet and earnest. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“Ain’t gonna go away if I don’t deal with it.” Yondu’s voice is scratchier than ever. “Pretty much the only thing I remember. Look, I been avoidin’ you because I didn’t trust myself to jump ya. I need this, okay?”

Kraglin looks him over. And finds his prick wilting at the blatant terror in Yondu’s eyes. “You might need it,” he says, carefully. “But I don’t think you want it.”

“No, ya don’t understand… It’s distractin’, and I can’t keep this up…” Yondu’s throat bobs and his eyelashes flutter as he rakes a finger through the wetness. The pad brushes his clit and he startles deliciously, thighs squeezing. The fear on his face is tainted by shock and pleasure. “Feels so good, need more, just…”

“It’s different,” Kraglin supplies, so Yondu doesn’t have to put it into words.

_Different because you got sold and experimented on and had all kinds of shit done to you as a kid. Different because you have no idea what’s happening to your own damn body._

And damn, but if that thought doesn’t make him want to travel back in time and gut every last Kree slaver there is. But Yondu nods along, joints locked out with the effort it takes not to squirm.

“Just, just take it slow, would you?” He laughs. It’s not especially humorous. “Don’t want me freakin' and sticking my arrow through yer fool skull.”

Now that’s motivation to make it good. Thankfully, Kraglin’s as well versed in the language of cunts as he is in cocks. He knows how to make Yondu’s clit _sing,_ if only the captain will let him. But what’s important right now is making him as comfortable as possible with the idea.

“I stick my dick up yer ass all the time, right?” he whispers, trying to make the words sound sultry. The subject matter’s enough to get Yondu grinning, despite the lingering worry that deepens the creases round his mouth and eyes.

“Whenever ya get the fuckin’ chance. Honestly, you’d think ya _wanted_ me to be limpin’ everywhere –“

“So this ain’t much different. How d’you want to do it, sir? You on top?”

Because that’s the way Yondu likes it when he’s not looking to get drilled hard; Kraglin on his back, pressed beneath the Centuarian’s cool bulk as Yondu lowers himself torturous slow, then bounces on his prick. But the captain shakes his head, sweat edging the tendons that stretch between clavicle and jaw.

“Nah – nah. Don’t think I could – muscles’re all weird. Yer gonna have to do the work. Look, can ya hurry it up? M’all slimy and gross already.”

He is. Juice drizzles from his cunt, squishing when he presses desperate fingers against himself like he’s trying to stem the flow. Kraglin licks his lips again.

“Oh yeah,” he breathes. “Don’t hide it, sir. Please.” Yondu’s got that dark patchiness to his face that suggests he’s blushing. “You like that, yeah? Ya like me looking at yer sopping lil’ pussy?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Yondu says. “Ain’t no girl.”

But his flush spreads, dappling the pointed tips of his ears. Kraglin leers.

“You ain’t no girl, that’s for certain. Don’t mean I don’t wanna sweet talk ya. Lookit – you’re drippin’ from my voice.”

“S’the heat,” Yondu mutters. His fingers dip again – Kraglin catches them, slippery and curling, before they can cover him up. He leans in over Yondu’s lap, and this time, he’s not pushed away.

“Heat, huh?” He can feel it. Usually, Yondu’s a couple of degrees cooler than him – different blood, different biology. But right now the warmth rolls off him in waves, and when Kraglin props a finger on either side of his cunt and peels it gently open, he can feel more, erupting from deep within his body.

He leans closer. Brushes the clit-button with his nose, and is rewarded with a squeak and the aroma of needy pussy. He rubs dampness off his nose against Yondu’s leathers, tugging the zipper all the way around so his pant legs peel apart at the crotch, revealing a swathe of blue skin. “How ‘bout I get you hotter?”

"Y-you sound like a damn porno flick..." Yondu’s hands fist in his hair again. But this time they’re not reins, urging him back. They’re tentative and trembling and desperate, and they pin his face close as Kraglin grinds him open with his chin and treats Yondu’s clit to a slow, wet kiss.

There ain't nothing quite like it: being lip to lip with silky blue.

Kraglin rolls his tongue against the opening, questing out the parameters of the fluttering little ring. The push inside has both of them moaning. It's easy - between the slick and Kraglin's spit, Yondu's anything but dry - and if the velvety-tightness feels good on Kraglin's tongue, it'd be a thousand times better on his dick.

Maybe later. For now, Kraglin has a pussy to worship.

He fucks Yondu on the tip, engulfed in his scent, his taste, the texture of his lube-smeared flesh and the way his captain’s hips tilt hungrily into the sensation.

Yondu’s slick is tart like salt and citrus. Kraglin can’t get enough of it. Shifting up, he nibbles around the swollen clit-nubbin, mindful of his serrated teeth as Yondu’s calves twitch and jerk on his shoulders. Then he starts to lick, fast but even, as he teases his hole with the pad of his thumb.

He rolls it round the vulva, stretching the lips, amazed at the softness and smoothness of bald blue skin. The angle’s awkward for exploration, but Kraglin powers through. He twizzles his pinkie against Yondu’s asshole, pressing on the pucker without spearing it and massaging in quick circles until his captain bows over him, hands mapping the shaved lines of his skull. All the while his tongue maintains the rhythm, rolling again and again against that hard bead.

There's no hint of it; no warning. Just a judder that jolts Yondu from his head to his toes, boots thumping Kraglin's shoulderblades. He doesn't even touch his prick - although that's bouncing away, thwacking his belly as he humps air. The captain's cumming, easier than any woman Kraglin's known and accompanied by a shocked breathy keen.

To say it's impressive is an understatement. A deluge squirts over Kraglin’s face – he barely has time to close his eyes. He kisses Yondu through it, stubbled chin scraping where his thumb stretches the hymen, tongue caressing his clit. It’s drawn up with the orgasm, hard to locate under all the slick. But Kraglin keeps licking until it buds again.

It’s a miniature candle flame, digging into his lip. When he worries it with lip-covered incisors, Yondu arches back, head smacking off the chair, legs clamping tight around Kraglin’s head.

He cums _again,_ in that way only those blessed with a cunt can, abdomen shaking as his innards quiver, bearing down on the intruding thumb. High on the smell, the tang, the intimate and immediate evidence of his boss’s pleasure, Kraglin lets his eyes drift shut. He doesn't give Yondu a breather, working the plump pussy over and delighting in the way it spurts and shakes.

He’s filthy, he knows. Dripping with Yondu’s juices; they’re smeared all over his face, gelatinous and milky-white. It’s worth every moment, as he recalls how he’d made the whores on Hrax moan, and digs again into Yondu’s cunt, keeping him high, keeping him horny, rubbing the rougher patch on his front wall until the pent-up pleasure explodes.

Yondu’s completely limp by the time Kraglin draws back. His head’s dropped to one side, resting on his shoulderguard, and he’s breathing hard enough to fog the leather. There’s shimmering slick painted over his thighs, and thicker white jizz on his belly from where his dick’s given up the goods. The picture’s debauched and steamy, especially with Yondu’s clothes being intact bar the blue window drawn by the zippers at his crotch.

“Fuck, sir.” Kraglin’s so hard it aches. Like a muscle tensed too long, straining for release. It’s all he can do to fumble out his cock before he kneels, pulls Yondu’s ass to the edge of the chair, and sheathes himself with a seamless squelch. “Fuck, fuck, the things I wanna do to you…”

Yondu’s hands scrabble at his back, seeking purchase on worn leather. His blue fingers skid and hook on the spaulders. He’s weak, scarcely able to hold on as Kraglin drills him, bottoming out in wet blue silk.

When Kraglin chases his lips for a kiss, his mouth opens too easily. Their stubble grates, Kraglin transferring dampness to Yondu's own face. He fills him with the taste of his sharp little pussy while he fucks him below.

“Good?” he remembers to ask, as their teeth clack and he rakes over the spongey place that has Yondu gasping into his mouth. His nod is fevered. “Good. Aw, fuck, I’m gonna, I’m gonna…”

Wait. Heat. _Breeding experiments._ That means –

Kraglin freezes. He shakes with the effort of holding still as Yondu’s pussy grips him, quivery and overwhelmed from the last orgasm. “Shit – “

Yondu’s face is inches from his. At this range, Kraglin’s worry percolates the heat-haze in Yondu’s brain. His red eyes widen. Kraglin sees, for one horrible second, the fear he worked so hard to eradicate swimming back.

“I’ll pull out, I’ll pull out…”

But then something coalesces in Yondu’s mind. His brows lower – an expression which would speak of anger on anyone else, but which on Yondu just implies a determination as unwavering as the stars are endless. Meeting Kraglin's eyes, he crosses his heels over the small of his back, then squeezes him in until he’s fully seated.

Yondu’s simmering inside, and his cunt peels all the way back. Kraglin splits him deep, the centaurian’s blue balls resting on the top of his cockbase. The seam between their bodies is locked tight as a shuttle in dock.

Kraglin _groans._ He forces his eyes out of their roll to give Yondu a serious look. “Hey, y’know what this means, yeah?”

His voice comes in spurts and sputters, as he quells the thrust from his pelvis. Yondu’s expression is serenely certain.

“I want it,” is all he says. Kraglin can’t hold back any longer. Not after that.

When he comes, it’s with a guttural growl. He keeps grinding as he softens, still balls-deep, rolling his torso up so he doesn’t squish Yondu’s cock. He doesn't know if his captain comes again, or if he's twitching from oversensitization - but either way, the shaking spasm wrings out the last of Kraglin’s jizz.

Kraglin sighs. The coil in his belly unwinds, replaced by a blissful thrum. Their kiss is lazy and slow.

Yondu licks at the streaks in Kraglin's beard, then pulls a face. Laughing, Kraglin draws out. He drags Yondu up and arranges himself behind him, so his captain’s tucked on his lap with his cunt smearing Kraglin’s leatherclad leg. Yondu's built sturdier than he is, but he’s shorter too, and when Kraglin eases his head back, Yondu can tuck under his chin.

“Got you messy,” he mumbles into Kraglin’s jumpsuit zipper. His fingers curl against Kraglin's neck, over the spiky tattoos. Kraglin scratches the drying trails – and yeah, it’s gonna itch, and he wishes Yondu had a wash rack attached to his room, because it’s nearing the start of the next day-shift and this is gonna be one awkward walk of shame. But he can’t hide his dirty grin. Yondu’s own smile is equally filthy, a gold-capped canine pinching his lip. “Perv.”

“You loved it, boss.” He dips his fingers between Yondu’s legs, relishing the way they spread without question, and runs the pads delicately around the vulva. His pussy-petals are cooler now, the weight of full-blooded arousal receding. But there’s still enough slick to collect, as Yondu rolls his weight onto one leg to give him more access and hides his moans in Kraglin’s jacket breast.

He smears it round, loving how the gel makes his thumb glide frictionless over Yondu’s clit. There’s a fair bit leaking onto his pants, mingled with his own jizz, but Kraglin loves that too. Almost as much as he loves the way Yondu buries his face in his neck and whimpers as he crooks his fingers to graze his g-spot, coaxing him to a slow and final peak. “One more, boss. C’mon, grind down on me. Just like that. Yeah.”

Yondu obeys – in itself insanely hot – and ripples weakly around him, hips swivelling in tiny circles. Kraglin’s cock twitches. Fuck, he wishes he could get it up for another round; but to be honest, he ain’t as young as he used to be.

Yondu definitely isn’t. Judging by the ragged breath and glazed eyes, Kraglin should quit getting him off before he makes the old git’s heart give out.

He has to half-carry Yondu to bed, once he’s wrung him through the aftershocks. His captain’s eyes keep sliding closed, and he trips more than once. Each time Kraglin’s there to prop him, oofing slightly as he takes his weight.

When he tips him onto the mattress, Yondu wordlessly strips off his clothes, moving lethargic, and scoots to make room. He doesn’t look back. But as Kraglin removes his own leathers he peeps over the prow of Yondu’s shoulder, and catches the edge of a smile.

They sleep in a fucked-out spoon, Kraglin’s knees against the back of Yondu’s. He drops an arm over his waist, and the captain lets him; even holds it close with the clasp of one broad blue paw. Kraglin kisses the slope of his implant. Tastes static crackling on his tongue.

“Love ya,” he whispers. But Yondu’s already snoring.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comments? X**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **After a lot of encouragement from the wonderful people who got sent the unedited first draft of this fic, I've decided to keep uploading it! Be prepared for uh, a lot of smut. And emotions. So many emotions.**

Three cycles on, and Kraglin is jerked from his dream by Yondu floundering out of bed to throw up.

It was a nice dream too - of which he feels justifiably cheated. For those in their line of business, several recollections swim up from the subconscious during the night, but of these, few are pleasant. His was a rarity: no explosions, no rampaging bilgesnipe, no battle-axe-swinging Kree. Not even an army of comrades culled too soon, who would plead _help me, Kraglin, please,_ the lids of their eyes clicking like scuttling beetles when they blinked. Just flying pastries, and more unit chits than his pockets could hold.

After that, reality is a guaranteed disappointment. The only pastry in the vicinity was consumed by Yondu two days ago.

“Shit,” says Kraglin, dropping a hand over his tired eyes.

“Shit,” the blue lump on the floor agrees. Yondu sounds hoarser than ever, chest rattling as he groans. One hand squeezes his belly while the other massages his pounding head. He grimaces at the mess he’s made. Beasties swim in gastric marinade, squishy orange chunks amid the foam. “Missed the bin.”

“Shit,” says Kraglin again. Then reality sinks in, and he scrambles from under the blanket, kicking frenziedly to freedom. “ _Shit!_ Does this mean, does this… mean…? You’re…? With my…?”

Yondu rubs vomit off his chin. His belch tastes sour, but his mouth is infinitely worse: teeth fuzzy, tongue a bitter slug.

“Congratulations,” he says. The mirth in his voice isn’t entirely artificial, as Kraglin swings his feet over the bedside and narrowly avoids paddling in stomach acid. “Yer gonna be a dad.”

 

* * *

 

Kraglin thumbs through the datapad. It projects cubes of Xandarian text that can be swivelled by aid of a holomatter glove (or, in his case, a lot of frustrated button-mashing). The fluctuating light makes his stubble look patchier than ever, grey glinting at his temples. “Says here most folks don’t get pukey until second week,” he says.

Yondu reaches over the table to cuff him. “Shut up! Ya _want_ the crew to hear?”

Kraglin winces. Yondu, snorting, ducks back to his meal. It's not Beastie worms; just looking at the squirming orange larvae makes his digestive system threaten round two. He grabbed the most boring looking portion available, something bland and grey and inoffensive, if you ignore the crunch of weevils. It's still easier to look at that than at Kraglin - at least until his mate snaps off the pad, cheeks a little less hollow when they’re lit by the overheads rather than the hologram's ghastly green underglow, and pulls Yondu’s bowl to his side of the table so the cap’n's eyes have no choice but to follow.

Yondu looks, but he ain't happy about it. “ _What_?”

“Yer gonna keep this a _secret?_ How?”

Ain’t even a ‘sir’ tacked on the end. Yondu could brig him for that.

However, he only got used to having a cunt three nights ago. (Okay, so perhaps he’s not _entirely_ acclimatized. He envisions the wet warmth between his legs as one more bit to wash in the shower and for Kraglin to fuck, and otherwise pretends that it doesn’t exist.) And _yeah_ , usually his reflexive snap at Kraglin whenever the idjit says something stupid, or fondles him on the job, or ogles him too obviously when he’s marching about the Bridge, is warranted. But possibly, just possibly, this time and this time alone, Kraglin has a point.

Yondu shrugs. It takes effort to look so much less perturbed than he feels.

Oh _sure._ He’d been all about the fuck while it was happening. It’d felt so right, so _natural_ for Kraglin to fill him up. Like his belly was hungry. Like something in him _wanted_ to be bred. But now the voice of instinct has waned, and Yondu’s left boggling at the sheer scale of the project he’s embarked on.

Pregnancy. _Fatherhood._ With _Kraglin_. In a body he’s not sure of the ins and outs of, to boot.

“Finish yer food,” he says, stealing back his bowl and whapping the spoon off Kraglin’s knuckles in penance. “We’ll discuss this later.”

And they do, once they’ve left the churning hubbub in the mess. Yondu leads the way with no destination in mind, ambling them along rust-speckled tunnels and through blast doors whose rubber seals are cracked and brittle with age, too fragile to withstand a breach. This deep in the ship, everything’s antique - as Yondu himself feels, catching his reflection in a pipe that erupts from the wall at head-height: either shoddy design work or a really naff conversation piece. He’s too damn old for this. Too jaded, too cynical, too _smart._ He should’ve known better.

“That book of yer’s,” he says as they stoop beneath. “What species is it on?”

Kraglin answers without checking: “Basic Xandarian sex ed, sir. But it’s applicable to most child-makin' folk out there with classic, uh, dicks and stuff.”

Ain't that perfect. Yondu rubs the crinkle between his eyes.

“I don’t got a classic dick and stuff no more. You mighta noticed.”

Kraglin’s breath develops a husk. Once they’ve unfolded from under the flume, or whatever else his engineers have installed down here in the _Eclector’s_ boondocks, Kraglin crowds Yondu against the wall and slips a hand beneath his legs, trailing the seam of his cunt through the leather. “Hard t’forget, sir.”

“Right.” Yondu’s knees quiver, just a little. He staves it off, forcing his voice steady while Kraglin angles his thumb to catch his clit. It's hard to locate, given the zipper – and sure enough, the thumb skids on by. It settles an inch too high to satisfy. But that means it's digging under his balls, and if those sharp jolts of pressure don't drive Yondu wild...

“An- And I gotta pouch too, don’t I? But I know that’s only for the kid to go in once it’s out – it’s how it’s gonna _get_ out that’s confusin’ me.”

“Uh, I dunno. Maybe here?” Fuck; if Kraglin rubs a little lower, there’s just enough give in the leather for him to push between the folds. Yondu’s eyes flutter shut and his exhales rasp ragged, and he finds he’s gathered Kraglin’s sleeves in his fists, holding him close. And they’re still in the middle of the ship. And damn it, this area’s sparsely populated but it ain’t off-limits. Someone could round that corner any second.

Yondu barges Kraglin back a pace. He ignores the wounded blink – lad’ll get over it; he should know better than to molest Yondu in public anyway.

Or get him wet in public. Seems the hormone-rush from his heat has yet to wear off.

That little smear is the centerpoint of his attention. It’s a degree cooler than his skin, silky against his pussy lips. The gusset of his boxers slides with every breath. He presses his thighs together, praying Kraglin doesn’t notice.

“Yeah, but like, it ain’t gonna be full grown neither, is it? Not if it’s s'posed to go in my pouch.”

Kraglin’s eyes linger below Yondu’s beltline as he pushes off the wall. They snap to his face, moved by duress rather than desire. “So it ain’t all like, attached inside?”

“I ain’t supposed to have none of this extra tackle.” The plump warmth in his groin suggests otherwise. As does that little smear. Yondu imagines it glossing his slit, a varnish of clear jelly. He berates himself when something _quivers_ inside him and the wet patch slickens further, seeping through his underwears to stain the leather.

It's too slimy to be mistaken for piss. Yondu wonders whether that would be less embarrassing.

“Don’t remember shit ‘bout where I came from,” he says. “But I know that in the slave pens, new brats got made by mixin’ samples from males an’ females. So out in the wild, m’guessin’ the babby comes out the mommy and goes in the daddy, then the mommy feeds it once it can take milk –“

He freezes. Kraglin walks into his back. “Sir?”

“Nothin’.” Yondu curls his toes inside their bootcaps and strides determinedly on, fast so that the moist rub of his boxers is more of an abrasion than a slide. It stings, but that’s good. Pain’s better than pleasure right now.

He’s gonna grow tits? He’s never gonna hide this. What the hell was he thinking, what kinda stupid…?

Fuck, he’s gotta get rid of it.

And soon, at that. Before he winds up getting _attached,_ or anything else dumb and sentimental and liable to see him and Kraglin dead.

The thought nettles at his viscera, like the nausea that accompanies thinking about Beastie worms for too long. Before Yondu knows it he’s clamming up, palms icy and neck prickling.

How could he be this dumb? He’s just scuppered himself, his entire operation, all because he couldn’t keep his goddam legs shut…?

“Sir?”

That’s Kraglin, meekly tugging on his sleeve. Yondu whirls. There must be something of his panic in his eyes, because Kraglin looks taken aback for all of a second, before his gaze steels and he drags Yondu into the nearest supply closet, wedging the door with his bony back when the ancient locking mechanism fails to engage.

Inside is murky, dusty-verging-on-carcinogenic. The bulb fritzes, threatening to fizzle out entirely. But between that and the gleam from Yondu’s implant, the cupboard is illuminated, particles swirling through the red in time with the suck and blow of Yondu’s fast-paced breath.

Kraglin is, for once, straight down to business. “Boss, are you alright?”

Yondu doesn’t know how to answer that. He should bluster and bluff and doggedly force himself onwards like he always does. Only this is… So new. So different. And he’s with Kraglin, and he doesn’t have to pretend.

Yondu lets his shoulders curl forwards as he slides down the stack of crates, until he’s hunched on the floor with his face buried in his hands.

“Aw hell,” breathes Kraglin. Then hunkers awkwardly besides him, and wraps his skinny arm over his shoulders. “You’re gonna be okay, sir. I promise.”

Like he knows anything. Yondu snorts. Kraglin’s even more in the dark than he is.

They sit there a full minute, until Kraglin starts creaking from boot to boot with the urge to stretch his legs. Yondu knocks the comforting weight of his arm away with no little regret, and wipes his eyes - leaky from the dust, that’s all - before standing.

“M’good,” he says. Even manages to sound like he means it - and without coughing, which is more of an achievement still. But before he can step out and face another shift as captain of the Ravagers' least-loved fleet, Kraglin slips in behind him, a spiky merlot shadow. He nestles his sharp chin on Yondu’s collarbone while his arms loop his stomach, squeezing just enough to announce their presence.

“You’ll be okay,” he repeats. It sounds like a promise.

Yondu closes his eyes and swallows, grit clogging his throat. He could grab Kraglin’s hand in his larger one, and lay it over his pouch: hidden beneath layers of leather and space-grime. He could correct him and say “we will" while staring into those pretty blue eyes. He could also snatch Kraglin's pistol from his holster and pop himself in the head, which right now, is equally as tempting.

Yondu gives every avenue thorough consideration. His teeth have started to champ, enamel grinding gold, as he realizes that Kraglin’s seen him at his lowest and by rights, he ought to be furious.

But when his first mate sighs, a hot whuff of air that makes the nerve endings around Yondu's implant tingle, he isn't headbutted so hard his nose turns concave. Yondu accepts the embrace mutinously, stiff and tense and glaring straight ahead. He doesn't fight it though. That means many things in Udonta-speak, a language where not even the originator can claim fluency: from _thank you_ to _I love you,_ and everywhere in between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Y'all know how much I love comments ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

Yondu wakes up to an empty stomach and a bed full of blood and _screams_ and -

“Hey. Hey, boss. Hey, hey-hey-hey-hey -”

Kraglin's voice gets progressively higher in pitch as the arrow sails closer to his eyeball. He doesn't dare blink, in case the brush of his lashes set it off balance. The light illuminates every bloodshot vessel in detail, as well as the sleep-grit and the tear zigzagging through Kraglin's stubble, and the faint jaundicial yellow that suggests he needs to eat more vegetables.

Yondu should probably do something about that. The arrow, not the vegetables – it's his first mate's own damn business whether he takes care of his lanky beanpole of a body, or if he has another tooth pulled due to scurvy.

Only Kraglin'd better step up and start looking after himself, because he's gonna have a family, soon.

Yondu's squeezing his belly so tightly that the imprints of his five fingers are going to emblazoned over the pouch in a starfish of purple bruising. He can feel the damp press of his cunt between his legs. Wetter than usual. And fuck, it might've been a nightmare but it _might not,_ and Yondu wants to know but he doesn't, and if he so much as _breathes,_  air will whistle between his teeth and Kraglin will die.

It's a stalemate, of sorts. Not that Kraglin has much choice about moving. There's fuck all he can do but stay still, eyeballing Yondu around the glittering arrowshaft.

But, Yondu thinks, sinking slowly back on his heels and feeling the fortifying pressure of the headboard against his spine, Kraglin's looking at him. Not the diamond-sharp yaka-point.  _Him._ That means _something._ And, despite the fact that he's the one at risk of immenant skewering, Kraglin reaches out for him – very, very carefully, adam's apple trembling with the force of stilling his gulp - and asks, squeaky as a chew toy:

“Cap'n, are you okay?”

Yondu forces himself to release his chubby handful. He tests the slippery concoction coating his inner thighs, snapping his fingers at the automated light switch. The solars flare on, the one over the door flickering and leaving a pocket of shadow that swells and recedes. The strobing echoes the throb in Yondu's brain, as he lifts his damp hand and looks at -

Nothing. Just a bit of slick that seeped out in the night. Seems his hormones haven't settled yet – and really, he oughta nick a mediscanner from a hospital port and double check that the damn thing's actually _there._ Last thing he wants is to work himself up for nothing.

But you don't get this stone-cold, paralytically _terrified_ over the thought of losing nothing. You don't rest your palm on your abdomen – gently, this time – and imagine you can feel the tiny thrum of nothing inside, flaring softly through a phantom crest.

“B-boss?” Kraglin points at the arrow. “You forgettin' somethin', or...”

Oh yeah. Yondu whistles, the sweet note slicing the medley of calming breaths and lowering adrenaline, as well as Kraglin's relieved gust of a sigh when the arrow slides into its sheath. That's looped over the iron bedframe, as per the usual, the same one that's propping Yondu's back so he doesn't flop limp as a spent cock.

He's fine. The baby's fine. It was just a dream, nothing more. It's unfortuante that Kraglin was here to witness it – Yondu'd rather keep his night-cycle uglies to himself. But it happened, and there ain't no turning back. Yondu turns on his partner with a fond grumble, readying himself to threaten him into silence. It's necessary – because while Kraglin's got a hand clapped over his eye to help it readjust to not having a blinding light source dangling not a quarter-inch away, he's still staring straight at Yondu.

“Boss, do ya wanna talk about -”

“No.”

“Are ya su-”

“Yeah.”

“I'm just sayin', y'know, that any time ya wanna -”

“Got the picture, Krags.” The bruises have started to ache: a puffy pain, like he's done ten too many crunches. Yondu rubs his belly one last time, uncaring for the clear discharge streaking his hands.

Ugh. Do normal folks-with-pussies leak this much? He ain't one for showering every day, but at this rate he's gonna need to invest in high-absorption underwear, the sort of pads they stuff down your pants when you get too old for continence. He slithers down the headboard until his shoulders hit the pillow, head wedged upright with neck at ninety degrees.

“M'fine,” he says, chin squashed into his pectorals. He shuts his eyes, after a brief scan of the chronometer reveals they have an hour left before shift. “It was just a fuckin' dream.”

 

* * *

 

“I think yer gonna lay an egg,” Kraglin informs him as they step into the showerblock. He's a good lad – didn't raise his eyebrows once when Yondu made the out-of-character request. Then again, Yondu caught him periodically wrinkling his nose as they got up and went about the usual morning routine – checking nothing had exploded in the night, that they still had a ship, that they weren't all about to be eaten by an interdimensional void-trawler, etcetera.

If Yondu can smell the sharp-but-sweet scent that clings to his nethers, Kraglin, with his beak any Novahawk would be proud of, won't be able to escape it.

Yondu grunts and rubs his eyes, trudging to the far wall. He concentrates on unpicking the belt that’ll make his ensemble peel apart in one, rather than devolving into a leathery spaghetti-knot.

Then pauses.

He remembers this is, while currently devoid of any but himself and his first mate, a public shower rack. And that, given how high tensions have been since the acquisition, nurturing, and eventual betrayal of a certain half-Celestial - a half-Celestial they’ve been contracted to work alongside, in the retrieval of Infinity stones from Terra; after a few other humdrum jobs like careening their underhull free of space barnacles and dealing with that pesky snitch on Duvallier - he doesn’t want the whole damn ship gawking at what’s between his legs.

Since his little problem manifested, Yondu has been sneaking washes in the private cubicles towards the galleon's aft. They’re clunky, dilapidated things, with malfunctioning heat controls and temperamental water pressure - you’re either subjected to a chilly trickle or a scalding blast that’ll strip the skin off your back if you ain’t careful about it.

No one uses them unless they’re a weird religious type, or they’re looking to avoid someone. Perfect for a cunt-sporting cap’n.

However, he and Kraglin had both finished shift early. They spent the day crawling through the depowered particle accelerator, miner lights strapped to their foreheads, checking the interior for plasma damage. The job could've been performed by any of the engineers - some might even say they were better qualified. But Yondu likes to perform the occasional spontaneous maintenance inspection. Just to keep ‘em on their toes. It wouldn’t do for their lightspeed drive to fizzle out next time the galleon needs to make the jump to hyperspace with Kree warships on their tail, or for the super-conductor’s heat to dip until fusion becomes fission and their hold overflows with radioactive waste...

Plus, Yondu ain’t quite ready to stand in front of a Bridge and act tough. He’s gonna have to, at some point. And he will, because picking himself up off rock bottom is what he does best. Growing up a slave, being outlawed by Stakar, losing Peter to his precious Guardians… Regardless of how much weight the universe piles onto his shoulders, Yondu perseveres.

But that doesn’t mean he _wants_ to expend energy on perfecting his pokerface. Not if he doesn’t have to.

And so, engine inspection it is. And now he and Kraglin are dripping with inactive plasma residue, a bitter stink that makes the sinuses shrivel. They need to slough off the worst of the grime, unless they want to strip every sheet off his bed come morning. Yondu would rather enjoy his wash without having to worry about Taserface and his cronies sauntering in while he’s sponging away the sweat and slick of a long hard day.

“Lock the door, will ya?” he asks Kraglin, trying to make it casual. Kraglin watches him a long moment, tapping one long finger against his buckle. Then he nods, and lopes to obey.

Yondu waits for the clunk before stripping off his pants. He doesn’t pause to examine himself in the mirror that covers the length of the shower room wall – not even for a lump or anything stupid like that. It's been a week, for star’s sake. Ain't gonna be nothing yet - especially with his lil’ paunch on top.

Who knows? Once the bulge starts to show, he might be able to pass it off as the result of too many second portions from the mess.

He plows for the nearest shower head and stands beneath it, sighing as the cascade pummels his back. He dials in a low-solvent setting and twitches at the familiar tickle as it eats away at the grease on his skin. Then twitches again, when the water’s joined by wandering fingers.

This wasn’t quite what he had in mind when he’d ordered the door locked. But Yondu ain’t complaining.

“Not often we do shower sex, is it?” he says, as Kraglin beats the waterproof shower control display so the spray broadens to cover both of them. The sound of their wet skin sliding is already carnal, and when the room’s empty their breath echoes from every mildewed corner.

Kraglin hums happily into his neck. The acoustics amplify the sound and return it to them tenfold. “Always good to pick up new habits, sir.”

“Hm.” Kraglin’s keeping it slow and gentle, trailing up to squeeze Yondu’s pectorals, down to circle his hip bones, up again and round. He traces sharp-nailed spirals into his obliques. Yondu has to keep talking so he doesn’t start moaning – it’s embarrassing how hot he’s gotten just from the touch. It’s not even explicitly sexual, damn it. Just... fuzzy. Fuzzy and warm. It's pretty dang obvious what Kraglin's after, but Yondu ain't revving up to meet him. It's more like he's relaxing into the rhythm, his muscles limpening, mind cotton woolish with the conviction that for once in his life, he's safe.

 _Safe?_ Pff.

With  _Kraglin?_

Honestly. Is he goin’ soft?

“Oi, what were ya sayin’ about an egg?”

“Oh.” Kraglin’s fingers falter – Yondu most definitely does not regret asking. But they soon begin again, less a tease and more a massage, pressing through the meat on his belly until they find muscle. Yondu jerks when  they trace the lip of his pouch. Fuck. That’s more… sensitive than usual. Each of the six teats prods through the skin, tiny hillocks on a blue savanna. “See, I’m figurin’ ya can’t just, uh, _give birth_ –“

Yondu shudders. “That sounds weird.” Kraglin’s rubbing fingertips become placating.

“I know sir, but I dunno what else to call it. Okay, so you can’t give birth to a tiny lil’ thing. Wouldn’t survive a second. So I’m reckoning it’ll have some sorta protection, so you can slip it in your pouch. Like an egg.”

It’s a sound theory. And something stirs – an old recollection, of the sort best left to languish in the cobwebbed sepulchres of long-forgotten memory.

They'd had too many with penetrating equipment. So he'd learned, as his stretcher was wheeled from the operation theatre. A group of males had been selected for alteration, hale and healthy and fresh from the battlefield, able to carry a strong brood...

But even then there’d always been herbs cultivated in secret panels behind walls, fed on the slaves’ water rations. Things a desperate Centaurian could swallow, so the sticky membrane dripped from them during the night.

Yondu ain't never carried to the bloody end. All he knows is gleaned from the whispers about _red jewels_ and the mournful hums that heralded an overly strenuous pouch-transition, low drone-notes and higher ululations that warbled until the perpetrators were whipped into silence.

Back in the present, Yondu’s mind latches onto something else.

 _Wouldn’t survive a second._ Who’s to say he’s even capable of bearing a baby full-term?

His hands tremor, where they’re holding Kraglin close. It’s not enough for Kraglin to notice. Yondu lets his head slump back and tries to rekindle his curdling arousal.

_No. Don’t think of that now. And anyway, yer still considering having the damn thing hoovered out, ain’t ya? If it’s stillborn it’ll just make the decision for you._

He hardens himself to the thought. But even wrestling with the concept, rather than any tangible actuality, he knows all his defences are fake. If anything happens to this child (his child, _their_ child) it’s all gonna come tumbling down.

Fuck. He’s gonna be a dad. To someone other than Peter. He hadn’t done such a great job last time, but this is his second chance, right? So long as the damn thing survives.

Kraglin dips between his legs, under the soft cock – he frowns a bit at that but doesn’t comment. Yondu’s dry – ridiculous considering he'd been leaking like a split washer in a faucet, just from crawling around a depowered fusion rig. But there’s enough damp in the air and water on both their skins that Kraglin can still slot a finger inside him.

Yondu prays he won’t notice. Kraglin though, is always at his most perceptive when it suits Yondu least. He nips delicately at his ear stud before whispering – “You alright sir?”

For the thousandth time today. Damn, but Yondu’s sick of hearing those words. He pulls himself together.

“Peachy, yeah. Mind wandered. You gotta try harder if you wanna keep my attention, boy.”

The challenge is enough to spur Kraglin’s wolfish grin, the one Yondu sees once in a blue moon when Kraglin actually gets in a mood to dominate rather than just doing as his captain commands. And – fuck, it sends a shudder through Yondu, culminating in the pussy that’s wringing on the tip of Kraglin’s finger.

“That’s better,” Kraglin murmurs. Meat-breath laves Yondu’s ear. If Yondu cranes, he can see those damned blue eyes of his: a diluted iteration of his own hue, as if a part of him has infected Kraglin and is slowly warping his colors until they match. Kraglin leaves no time for ponderings though; he catches the stud between his teeth and rolls his tongue over it before sucking the lobe into his mouth, chewing while his knees breach Yondu’s legs below, opening him up for access. Yondu's feet skid on the slippery tiles.

“Careful –“

“On the floor then. Hands and knees. Now.”

Yondu’s cock fills at that, blood pooling in his crotch. And he feels _something_ clench, buried under his stomach.

“Yeah,” he whispers. Any lingering tension drains from his shoulders as he sags to the ground.

It's a rare day when he does as he's told. But sometimes, when his eyes are hot and itchy from the interrupted sleep, and the memory of blood-soaked sheets is still fresh in his mind, it's just easier to let go than make this a game of clashing wills that Yondu will inevitably win. He spreads his legs and pivots his hips, showcasing his puckered ass, the smooth blue slit, the dangling balls below.

The beat of the water cuts to silence. Yondu is left, wetness soon turning to chill. He blinks at the drips snaking down his forearms as he waits for Kraglin to begin.

A palm’s the first point of contact. It rests on his back, heavy as a sauna stone, forever a few degrees warmer than his own. Yondu softens into it, letting his muscles spill loose, and slides his thighs further apart.

“Good,” Kraglin praises.

A breath makes tiny scales flare along his perineum. That's his only warning. Then Kraglin dips his tongue inside him.

It's a soft slick probe. There and gone again: a damp plunge that grows and recedes in the space of a second. But a mental spotlight hones on Yondu's cunt. Every nerve is alight, innards quivering, desperate, igniting at the touch. He rocks back without quite realizing it, pelvis rolling through a gluttonous circle, uptilted in an offer he refuses to make out loud.

Kraglin chuckles and pulls away. A knuckle prises at his vulva. Yondu clenches – but his pussy can’t get any purchase and Kraglin amends his position with a slap to his right asscheek, leaving a stinging navy handprint on the blue. “Still. There ya go, thassit. Dang sir, don'tchu jus' look perfect.”

Yondu's got a self-esteem that rivals Little Miss Universe's. Those flames don't need any fanning, certainly not from his beady-eyed bird of a mate. But the praise makes his toes curl nevertheless. Yondu drops his head between his shoulders and gasps as Kraglin knuckles his slickening opening, never quite pushing in. His hand’s a blunt press, testing the loosening, opening gash. Yondu hasn’t been told to speak, so he stifles the noises as Kraglin extends two fingers to a crook and engulfs their bent shapes in slippery warmth.

It's strange. It's still oh-so-fucking strange, and a decent-sized portion of Yondu, the part that stands at a distance and barks criticism whenever he dares stoop from his captain's plinth to adopt small Terrans or show loyal Hraxians affection, is railing against it. What's nestled between his thighs doesn't _belong_ there, it insists. The wrongness is like...

Well, like having a foreign cunt grafted to you and shaped out of stem cells in a lab.

But at the same time, it feels so good.

Kraglin deals him another cracker of a spank. Yondu has to bite his lip to catch the yelp. “Loud. I wanna hear ya.”

“W-which one of us gives the orders here?” But if Kraglin wants him noisy, Yondu will gladly take him up on the challenge. Boy’ll have incurred permanent hearing loss by the time they're through.

He doesn’t bother to hold himself in after that. Even exaggerates, for Kraglin's benefit, because a good captain is attentive to the needs of his crew. He mewls and whines like he's star of a cheesy porn holovid, and fucking _wails_ as Kraglin finally starts to thumb his clit in time with his shallow, bent-fingered thrusts, his cock bobbing against his belly. If he’s being noisy for the hell of it, he theorizes, Kraglin won't know just how many of his moans are legitimate.

Kraglin, unfortunately, takes that to mean ‘all of them’.

“Oh yeah,” he breathes. He shifts in, hand twisted awkwardly between them, so he can fasten his teeth over Yondu’s nape – a perfect instinctual declaration of _dominance_ ; rarely shown and all the more cherished for it. Lust pulses through Yondu like a shot of huffer-root. He arches like a stretching cat, grinding on Kraglin’s fingers and questing for the cup of his palm with each swivel of his hips.

Kraglin _purrs._ “Damn, but yer hot like this. You want it, sir?”

Yondu nods, clit throbbing against that dry fingertip. His first mate’s smile is hidden, but he feels the imprint of teeth on the top ridge of his spine. “I can’t hear ya.”

It’s gonna be one of those days, huh? The last time was years back, after a mission robbed their crew of their youngest recruits. Recruits Kraglin himself had scouted, trudging bar to bar on Knowhere with an ever-growing gaggle of teenagers. Most were barely past the Ravagers' self-assigned limit-age of eighteen, while the rest claimed they were of-age fervently enough that Kraglin believed them. He lured them up the gangplank with promises of money and glory and lights to shine over their graves, and delivered precisely none of it.

Back then there'd been guilt involved. Guilt and blame and Kraglin needing to feel in control, and doubtlessly a whole load of other compounded sentimental nonsense that Yondu had missed (because he is, as Peter claimed before deciding the galaxy needed him more than Yondu did, about as thick the Eclector's hullplates when it comes to sussing the intricacies of emotion). But the past is the past.

Yondu should probably talk to Kraglin about why his pussy sets Kraglin's dominant-side into overdrive. He's not sure he'd like the answer. However, right now it's just what he needs – to be broken down, to let everything go, to exist simply as _Kraglin’s,_ in every way, nothing left but blue surrounding white and white surrounding blue. 

His cunt trembles against Kraglin’s hand. Slick dribbles out, a thinner jelly coating Yondu’s lips and trickling down his balls. Kraglin straightens his fingers, twisting them to a more comfortable angle. He probes and stretches, teasing him out, relishing the flushed loose stretch. Yondu's aroused - it's kinda redundant to point it out, what with the navy dusting on his cheekbones, and the constant drool around Kraglin's buried digits. But while his muscles have softened, Yondu's innie is crammed close enough to his danglies to ensure a squeeze.

This is what Kraglin tests. He wriggles his fingers independently of one another, scissoring the silky walls.

“Yer made to be fucked, boss,” he growls in Yondu’s ear. “Made to be held down, taken, as I wring moan after moan out of ya, stuff you with my cum… Fuck, but yer hungry for it. I get ya pregnant and you’re still as good as begging: greedy lil slut who always wants more.”

The dirty talk is considerably further than Yondu himself would go. He wonders if those words ought to spark less-than-stellar connections to his time in the Kree pits. But he'll smack Kraglin upside the head later. For now, everything's sparkling and _sensitive,_ and if Kraglin doesn't keep touching him Yondu's even more likely to murder him than if he keeps playing this ridiculous humiliation game.

Yondu contents himself with the knowledge it's Kraglin who's servicing him, despite all his natter. Words is words, after all.

He tosses his head back when Kraglin dabbles his thumb through the slick. He paints a slippery ring on his clit, and Yondu's jaw clenches tight enough to make the tendons bulge in his throat. Kraglin wraps a thin hand over them, Yondu's pulse fluttering against his palm like the wingbeats of a trapped bird. He applies just enough pressure to shorten his breath and delivers his next command as his fingers drive in deep: “Say it.”

Yondu chuckles, breathless. He's amused by Kraglin's audacity. That's all. The cyclone in his abdomen, centered behind his pouch; the heat encroaching through his pelvis with each shift of Kraglin's hand and the corresponding spasm in Yondu's legs… That's incidental.

“Say it,” Kraglin demands.

He sounds more like a stroppy child than a captain. There's the hint of a question there, and Yondu suspects that if he crikked his neck over his shoulder, he’d find his first mate's lip jutted out in the galaxy's stubbliest, gawkiest pout.

But Kraglin's making an _effort_. This is obviously a game he wants to play. And (while Yondu would gut any of his men who said this) it's the sentiment that counts.

“I'm a slut for ya,” he drawls, letting his head stoop so the running water splits around his implant like a rocky outcrop in a waterfall. “Kraglin, sir.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Super slow updates because I'm rewriting as I go along! But hopefully, you enjoyed this next installation in the adventures of the Obfonteri-Udonta family. Thanks for every comment!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **For anyone wondering about the conference table - go and read my first fic for this fandom, _The Ravager's Guide to Getting Laid!_**

"Sir." 

 _Fuck._  Kraglin's cock _pulses_.  

He jerks above Yondu’s ass: a hungry stab, demanding more than jungle-damp shower air can provide. His coated fingers untwist with a pop - and a resultant snigger from Yondu. Parting blue asscheeks, Kraglin rubs slick along Yondu's crack before guiding his stiff cock after it.

It's sensation he chases. Sensation, the roar of blood in his ears, the dry crackle in his throat as he looks his captain over.

Sex is a strange thing. An odd habit of mortals, to squish genitals into one another for pleasure. Far away, Kraglin imagines the ancient cosmic beings the Ravagers pay tithe to, ejecting a fraction of every profit into the black. Right now they're chuckling to themselves as they settle in to enjoy another bout of clumsy fornication.

And yet, here and now, it makes perfect sense. An equation solved, a puzzle completed. Poets hoard a million lilac-tinted phrases to describe it: the naked writhing, the groping, the gasping, the ridiculous grimaces when you reach climax. Yet for Kraglin, sex is a synergy of reality and rose-goggles. Two men roll around on limescale-rough tiles and make silly noises. Two men touch one another. Two men explore their bodies, and something more besides, something he don't got the words for. He doesn't need them. That _something_  makes all poetry inadequate.

Yondu ain't salient – hasn't been for a decade, to tell the truth. But muscle rolls under his chub, dipping and swelling against Kraglin's palms, expanding and contracting with each breath. He's a big guy, stocky and broad, chest built like a boxer's in comparison to Kraglin's toast rack. Making him tremble, making him wriggle and pant, is such a power trip that Kraglin bucks forwards, rubbing along the canyon of his ass and squeezing his cheeks tight around him.

"Gonna fuck you til ya see the stars,” he promises. The words stagger out, one after another, plan formulating as he hears himself speak: “Then m’gonna make you walk back to yer quarters, and we’ll plug ya up pretty.” He stops himself tacking on the customary ‘sound good, sir?’ This right here ain't Yondu’s choice. Yondu doesn’t want it to be.

Judging from the slack-jawed nod, his captain approves _._

Friction's good, friction's nice, friction keeps him sane. Kraglin ruts his cock back and forth, damp head sticking to Yondu’s bunched pucker. Oh, he wants to fuck him there too. Here, there, everywhere; his mouth, his hands, sit on his cock and lock skinny legs around his waist and snuggle down in that big warm lap. They pop into his mind, position after position, curved limbs and dripping slits and open, wet mouths. The snapshots reel past like a sped-up porn vid: karma sutra pages flicking back and forth.

They’ve got time. They’ve got the rest of forever - however many years are left on their clock before a plasma bolt stops it, or a blown gasket in an M-ship engine, or the creeping chill of deadspace. Kraglin gets ass and dick whenever he pleases (whenever Yondu pleases, truth be told, although he can usually be swayed if it's been too long since they had a switch up with the aid of nagging and Beasties). Right now, Kraglin hones on the blue pussy between.

He pulls back. Waits until Yondu’s shivering, each muscle tight as rope fiber with his refusal to beg. Then Kraglin places the bulb of his cock on his cunt. It's a small touch, a simple touch, tip parting the folds.

Yondu goes still as prey. The quiver in his thighs is the only movement; he even holds his breath.

Kraglin smirks. He slides in an inch before pulling out, then in deeper, then out again, watching his vulva squish and pull, velvet tugged along his dick.

It squelches. Yondu ain't embarrassed – too far gone for that. There's something marvellously, uncharacteristically passive about him as he lies there and lets Kraglin hump, dropping to his elbows so he can dazedly mouth at his fist. All Kraglin has to do is hold him in place, hands on his hips, and let his body do the thinking.

Strange, calling the shots like this. Truth be told, Kraglin had a few wobbles back there when he wasn't quite sure what he was doing – wobbles Yondu usually would've taken advantage of, spinning control back to his own, more experienced court. Like all the best teachers, he leads by example, Kraglin his willing student. But right now he's too out of it to compete. If this can even be called a competition - Kraglin struggles to place it in his brain, struggles to know where this fits into the power dynamics that domineer over both their lives.

They unravel, just slightly, as Kraglin pushes in again.

His captain grips him, soft and dripping and oh-so-eager. Each thrust splits him down to Kraglin’s balls. There’s no bang of a cervix, no pain in Yondu’s breathless whimpers – so Kraglin experiments, angling _down_ like he would in his ass. His reward is a full-body shudder. The ripple builds and it builds, in time with Kraglin's bean-flicking, until Yondu stiffens with a sharp keen. His dick spurts. Kraglin can't see it buck and throb, but if he bends over Yondu's back, he can watch the milky threads wind through the water, polluting the puddles as they drain.

Fast. Fast and filthy and threatening to make Kraglin follow him. But this is a game, and if he loses control of himself, he doesn't deserve to control Yondu. Kraglin clamps down. Focuses on his partner - the sag of loose muscle, the backwards roll of his eyes.

“And ya just came." From the moan, he’s well aware. “Slut.”

Damn good word that. A sharp, sibilant crack of a sound. Like a spank - the meet of a palm and a slippery, fresh-showered buttock. _Slut, slut, slut._ He doesn't know _why_ he enjoys smearing it on Yondu, a man he respects far more than he does himself – doesn't know why Yondu enjoys it either. Perhaps it's the contrast, the knowledge that this would get any other man tossed in the brig or out the airlock. Whatever the reason, Kraglin's blood pumps like it's gonna gush out his nose, pressure thrumming at the underside of his skull.

He doesn’t slow down, polishing Yondu's clit with his fingertip. It's gotta be on the sore side of sensitive, and Kraglin's hands are far from the most graceful – thin but knuckly, built for wrapping around M-ship joysticks and aiming pistols, not delicate manouevers in the bedroom. But Yondu peaks again, damn near contracting Kraglin back out of him – and _again_ , when Kraglin locates that hotspot on his frontal wall and makes sure to grind against it while he's still high and shivering from his last. Doesn't take long to make him a wretched mess, belly hung low to the tiles, gasps echoing from the walls. Kraglin pulls him onto him as much as he thrusts forwards, clawing Yondu’s waist for purchase. After coaxing out that third orgasm, he remembers he's supposed to be in charge and focuses on his own release.

He fucks as hard as he can, skin smacking in cymbal claps. Yondu can hold himself up now he’s gotten off; he flattens his palms against the tiling and pushes back, driving himself with the sort of determined, relentless fury that’ll work Kraglin to completion if he has to give him an aneurysm first.

“Shit, fuck, Yondu...” Kraglin pitch raises with each sloppy plunge. Finally he grabs Yondu’s thighs and drags him on as tight as he can, hips snapping fast and rabbity before plunging in deep. He grinds until his dick softens and his balls squeeze empty – then has to tug to unstick himself. Another loud suck, another giggle. Kraglin pushes Yondu's shoulder, half-chiding. His captain rolls too easily, flushed and breathless, fang caps glittering in his laugh. 

Beautiful ain't a word space pirates throw around, especially not when talking about each other. It doesn't suit Yondu, with his scarred weathered skin and smile lines. But Kraglin ain't one of them fancy poet-folks, and right now, chest heaving and vision dazed to staticky grey stardust, he can't think of a better one.

They stay like that, Kraglin locking out his arms so he doesn't collapse. He tracks his recovery through the lifting of the mist over his retinas. When his eyes are clear enough to scour the trembling muscle in Yondu’s chest, the lazy curl of his grin, the white drool on his cockhead and the drip of his damp, plump cunt, he knows he's ready.

Juices glimmer under ambient lights. When Kraglin leans in, his limp dick drags across Yondu's inner thighs.

“Squeeze in,” he whispers, rubbing until Yondu, nose scrunched, obeys. Cap'n ain't a big kisser, and while a tonsil-tickling make-out would be, in Kraglin's mind, the perfect end to this scene, he doesn't force it. “Now stand. Thassit, boss. C'mon, you can do it...”

He has to hold Yondu upright as he scrubs the worst of the sweat from his shoulders, one hand cupped under his crotch. Yondu’s slick soaks his palm, dribbling down his thighs – but he manages to clench up enough to pinch the tips of Kraglin’s fingers. It’ll take longer than the stroll back to their cabin for his cum to follow gravity. Still, this is gonna be an uncomfortable walk.

Uncomfortable for Yondu. Infinitely gratifying for Kraglin.

He smirks against the scars on Yondu's temple and rakes his nails through the jizz on his belly, washing away all evidence that ain't sealed inside.

“Go put yer pants on." Yondu sneers at the order, ankles wobbling. For a moment Kraglin thinks that this is it, that it's over, that Yondu's tired of his lousy attempts to take charge. Oh well. It'd been fun while it lasted. Kraglin will miss it, but not enough to kick up fuss. He shrugs to himself, filing the memory as a one-off with no little regret.

Then Yondu rolls his eyes, one hand pressed to his pussy. Moving tight-legged and slow, he heads to the lockers. Kraglin, heart thumping, grateful and proud and so happy he doesn't know how to say it, dries off beneath a gush of hot air and follows.

He stays a pace behind Yondu. Yondu dons the role of captain with the same ease with which he jams his heels into his worn old boots, casting sharp-toothed grins at any who look his way. His swagger swings wide and confident, barging anyone from his path who ain't quick enough to clear the way. His voice always sounds freshly fucked, so when he barks at a pair of slacking rookies to _look lively and scrub!_  they remain none the wiser.

Kraglin knows though.

He eats up every minute shake of Yondu’s legs, as they struggle to hold his weight while he keeps his cunt squeezed shut. Some’s gotta be rolling loose by now. Sliming the inside of the captain’s leathers, painting the blue juncture between his thighs musky with Kraglin’s cum....

Anticipation prickles his arm hair. Not for release – he's already found that. It's a simmer more than a boil; a desire to play, to see his handiwork reveal itself in his captain's shudder and gasps, his body a canvas on which Kraglin can paint.

Yondu ain't never gonna be one for sitting pretty in a nest and letting his mate cater to his every whim – although he'd probably milk it for the first week or so, until he got bored. His is an indomitable energy, like the blast of solar wind from a dying star. It would be wrong of Kraglin to control that. And yet...

That intuitive need to keep mate safe and secure, tucked away where no other fertile male might gouge out his child and replace it with his own? He knows it's ridiculous, knows it's paranoid and foolish and all kinds of patronizing. Yondu is nothing if not self-sufficient. But instinct is a potent drug, nevertheless.

He holds his peace until they’re steps from Yondu’s cabin. Then grabs him by the hand and bundles him roughly in, still scarcely daring to believe he's permitted to take the lead, as craved by the broil in his blood and the thrum in his bones whenever he looks at Yondu's belly.

_My child. My mate. Mine._

“Pants off,” he breathes. Yondu fumbles the clasps, clumsily peeling them down to his knees. “All the way.” The boots are kicked off as well, and the trench. Kraglin looks at Yondu, standing bare from the waist down with the sleeves of his shirt just clipping his palms, chin up and eyebrows at a cocky angle that's begging to be wiped away.

He licks his lips. “Awright. Uh, you got a pussy plug anywhere?”

Yondu points at a drawer in the furthest corner of the room, inset in the wall matrix so it doesn't take up extraneous space. Kraglin bounces over to it. It unfurls with minimal creakage, and Kraglin hums happily at the array of dildos and buttplugs, vibrators and cock cages it contains, running covetous fingers over silicone and steel.

“We ain’t had no chicks here for a while, have we? Now what d’you think – one of these –“ he selects a vibrant red dildo, thin so as not to strain on Yondu’s internal walls. “Or these?”

 _These_ are a weighty pair of cunt-balls, joined with a golden string. The inner beads vibrate as Kraglin shakes them side to side. Yondu’s gaze settles, half-lidded and entirely willing.

“Good choice, sir." The buzz in his chest is barely discernible as a heartbeat. But even when he wants to be rough, wants to be hard, wants to bite and growl and _claim_ , he can't banish the softness from his voice. “Yer doin' so good, boss. C’mere and let me put ‘em in.”

Yondu walks stiff as a marionette. When he reaches Kraglin, he can’t stop looking at the golden beads. Kraglin drops the vibe in the drawer with a hint of regret, but figures he’ll get to test it on Yondu in good course. Stars, this opens up so many new doors. If Yondu's amenable to play, Kraglin's more than up for the challenge. Especially with plugs - anything to give him the illusion that his seed is sealed away in his partner, locked-in secure as a Nova ship in formation.

...That's gotta be unhygienic in the long run. Even with his vague knowledge of feminine hygiene, Kraglin suspects pussies require the occasional rinse - but hey, a fantasy's a fantasy, weird as it may be.

“Spread yer legs,” he whispers. The ribbing on his jumpsuit scratches Yondu's rough palms. He tucks his head against Kraglin’s clavicle, bodies plastered together with his shirt tacking lightly on the leather. When Kraglin traces the curve of his ass, he shuffles his feet to either side with a sigh, sinking lower.

Kraglin kisses his implant. Holds him apart with one hand while he pushes in the beads with the other, then gives Yondu a pat to set them thrumming. “Wear 'em for the rest of the day?” he suggests. Then, once he receives the nod: “Now put yer cap'n face on. Ain’t we got a meet with Pete and the Nova man?”

 

* * *

 

Dey. About this next job – this job-on-Terra, searching for some kinda Tesseract-artefact that the primitives have stumbled over, which could destroy their entire world. Important stuff. Far too important to be fighting off arousal the whole time – plus there's that business with the snitch to attend to, and they still need a good careening before they set off on their earthbound adventure, because it'll never be done otherwise.

But right now, the usual imbroglio of Ravager life is the last thing on Yondu's mind. Kraglin says he’ll be fine.

He nods. Firms up his mouth and sets his jaw. Kraglin laughs - a bright sound, rare to hear when it ain't at nobody else's expense. He kisses him, and when Yondu keeps his mouth clamped shut, scowl severe, he receives a tap to his cunt in reward.

Ah _fuck._ The little balls _sing._

He drags his discarded pants on, gait strained but almost natural. That dissolves once he’s back on the corridors. Yondu has to check himself more than once to stop his hips rolling in an effort to contract the balls deeper. Each step makes them vibrate, reverberating like a Kymellian meditation bell, a relentless jangle that stokes embers in his belly which should've long-since cooled.

Fucking hell. This heat is _serious._ He ain't had a reprieve since Kraglin knocked him up. It's all flush, all want, all wet open need. Here, now, stuffed with his cum and his child and the golden beads Kraglin’d selected for him, reminded of his sore-stretched pussy with every pace, Yondu feels younger than he has in years.

No time to thank Kraglin though. His wrist comm sputters to life. Zqo. “Hail from the Guardians, sir.”

“Patch ‘em through.” Fuck. His crew might not notice the alteration in his voice, but Peter will. Yondu takes a deep, steadying breath. He's gratified when Kraglin’s hand presses against the small of his back, so quickly it could be a accidental.

“Quill!” he booms, as soon as the link opens. “How ya doin’?”

Quill squints at him, profoundly dubious. “You sound cheerful.”

“Can’t I be happy to see my boy all grown up and protecting the galaxy on his lonesome?”

There’s a snicker from the background, reminding Yondu that Peter is not, in fact, on his lonesome. “Cute,” says the Rat. Peter sighs and grinds his temples like he’s trying to screw out the headache. But he doesn’t deny the claim – for which Yondu is weirdly, absurdly grateful.

Stupid pregnancy.

It’s relieving though. He raised Peter without too many near-death incidents, right? He can’t do any worse by the next kid. Below the viewscope of the camera, his palm hovers an inch above his belly. Then determinedly rests on it. _All you gotta do’s get born, lil nugget. We’ll go from there._

“So why you hailin’ my ship on this fine afternoon?” he asks. Readjusts his weight – then has to fight to keep his face straight as the movement makes the balls slowly massage the length of his cunt. Peter gives him that curious look once more – then decides, quite rightly, that he probably doesn’t want to know. He gets down to business.

“Dey wants to meet, and seeing as I’ve got him on board and the Milano’s damn cramped enough with three humanoids, a raccoon and a talking potplant, I figured we’d adjourn to larger quarters.”

Yondu feigns offence. “You telling me he doesn’t wanna invite us back to the Nova HQ? All their lovely conference centers? With them big tables?”

To anyone listening in, those words are the usual brand of Yondu-weirdness. But for Peter and Kraglin…

Kraglin turns to disguise his corpsing, while Peter’s colour goes from tan to uncooked dough. “Not,” he says faintly, “after last time.”

Last time being when he marched in to find Kraglin in the midst of fucking him over Irani Rael’s placemat, marking their territory in the second most disgusting Ravager way.

Yondu keeps his cackle quiet. He looms over the mic, his body a barrier that muffles his whisper from the rest of the Bridge crew. “So ya told Dey? I sure hope ya taped that conversation – I’d pay good money to see his reaction –“

Peter casts a nervous glance at his companions, who all shoot him various expressions of bemusement. A voice from off left starts, and the camera pans to follow it – revealing Dey, in all his chubby glory, hard at work on a series of Nova-stamped holopad-docs. “He didn’t have to. I had to organise therapy for the poor corpsmen and women in the surveillance room.” They’d given Nova Corps _lasting trauma._ Yondu shares a gleeful grin with his mate. “And while I’ve got a stronger stomach, I don’t appreciate having to douse an entire room in disinfectant. Hence. Your ship.”

“Oi,” Kraglin argues, shouldering into shot. He grabs Yondu’s wrist to jab at the camera. “We might be dirty space pirates, but we ain’t _that_ dirty – ow!” Yondu, having smacked the back of the head, regains his personal space with a neat sidestep and a smirk. A smirk that tightens around the edges as the balls stir his slick.

“Come aboard then,” he says, mostly to distract himself from the heat between his legs. Goddamn it. He ain't never come this much in one day – and sure, his cock ain’t getting up again. But cunt-orgasms diffuse through his body in a whole new way. Like a spreading wildfire rather than a dropped bomb. He’s light headed, and has to stand a moment to get his bearings after he snaps of the comm. Kraglin nudges his elbow.

“C’mon sir, we better hurry. They’ll be docking in five.” His expression morphs wicked for a fragment of a second. “Might have ta run.”

Aw, fuck. He can’t, he _can’t._ But Kraglin’s set him a challenge, so Yondu supposes he has to.

“I’ll race ya,” he says, waving for the bridge crew to get on with what they’re doing. Kraglin’s smirk flowers again, beautifully. Standing in front of him he rubs Yondu’s zipper, the one which runs neatly over his slit. He grinds the cool metal up, using the shadows of the low portion of the deck as cover. Once certain his captain’s legs are full-out quaking, he draws back and winks.

“Three, two, one, go?”

“Cheater,” Yondu tries to accuse, but Kraglin’s already off. Nothing to do but follow. Snarl as fake as his pants are slick, Yondu spills into the corridor after him, balls tingling with each clench of his cunt. Kraglin may have the headstart, but Yondu ain't captain for nothing.

“Out the way, comin’ through!” he roars, and charges.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More pure smuuuuuut. I may give up on properly rewriting this and just feed you dribs and drabs of smutty goodness..... Thank you for all of your comments; they mean the world. As for the style of this chapter - I read somewhere that guys tend to be very.... visual with arousal, while girls are more emotional? I don't know how true that is, although judging by pic-sending experiences, it has some weight! So yeah, this is me trying to capture that, I guess...**

**Author's Note:**

> **This is set after my first ever fic in this fandom, _A Ravager's Guide To Getting Laid._ You don't technically have to read that first, but if you're here for plot rather than smut, it might help, especially after Peter  & Co. arrive on scene!**


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